


You always stop at the same part, when it's very interesting

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Hospitals, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, and christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a Paris's hospital, an injured Artist begins to tell a fellow patient, a little boy with a broken arm, a fantastic story about Apollo - the white knight and the Dragon, called "The Authority". Thanks to his fractured state of mind and boy's vivid imagination, the line between fiction and reality blurs as the tale advances. The Artist fights his own demons, slowly deciding to lose the fight and ends up his own story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's my story

**Author's Note:**

> Hello) Yesterday I watched a movie called "The Fall" and it was not just AMAZING. It was sdfghjcvbnmjk. Go and watch it right now.
> 
> Why are you still here? Go and watch it!!
> 
> That's why I took the idea from that movie and made a crossover with Les Miserables. I am not even sorry.
> 
> Also, the poem Jehan is writing is a translation of a ukraining song "Oкеан Ельзи".
> 
> P.S. do forgive my English((

A hospital binds people together. The pain, long hours of waiting in corridors, cheap coffee in plastic cups, sleeping on uncomfortable chairs. Tears and melancholy in the eyes. Those things bind different strangers together in a hospital. 

A Christmas tree, which is standing in the hall of the hospital, looks beautiful. People, who are waiting in that hall, look at the tree, at the creamy lights and their bright dance reflects on people’s tired eyes. Sound of pens, writing names and data on the blanks, quiet whispers and mobile rings. Those sounds fill the empty space between parents, friends and lowers, who are waiting for news. Who are hoping and praying. 

A girl and young man burst into the big modern building of the hospital. The girl has knotted black hair and dark circles under her eyes and the boy near her has long ginger ponytail and beautiful green eyes. They run to the information desk, leaving mud on the clean floor, breathing heavily, with almost mad gazes. The boy in his twenties ducks under the older man’s hand and appears in front of the woman behind the Info desk.

“Please, tell us where is he. ..A man, 22 years old, car accident…”

“The ambulance took him 40 minutes ago…”

“His name is Grantaire…”

The boy and the girl interrupt each other, almost crying. The ginger haired student bites his lower lip as the woman types something on her computer. 

“He is in the operation room. You can wait in the hall for the further information.” She smiles politely to them as the girl with black hair glances at her, shaking slightly. “Tell, me where he is…NOW!!” she roars, her voice hoarse, so the high notes are lost in her throat.

“I am sorry, but you are not allowed to go there. Please, wait for the further information…” 

They step back and look around. The student hugs the girl, who is trembling with anger and fear and they walk to the nearest chairs, not breaking the hug. “Ponine, he will be alright…It’s Grantaire, he is always alright, even when he is not…” tears running down his thin face as he tries to convince her.

Éponine sits still, her knees are pressed to her chest. The dark blue coat is a bit dirty on the sleeves and is in fact bigger then her skinny figure. The pullover doesn’t really protect her body from the winter cold. She puts on her hood and hides her face in hands, which are red from the cold. 

Her ginger haired friend Jehan is sitting cross-legged, paying no attention to the fact that his boots leave wet stains on his jeans. His eyes are wide opened and he barely moves. Red hair is tangled and falls on his shoulders, hiding traces on the cheeks, his tears have made. The man is even thinner than his friend. The jumper is too big for him and the reindeer pattern is lost somewhere in the middle of the creamy scarf and the fabric of the coat. 

They are sitting in front of the main entrance. Ten minutes later the boy watches two young people, who run through that door, just like he and Éponine had done. The first man has light brown hair and glasses. The scarf on his neck is loosened like if it has been put on in a great hurry. The second man wears a beige coat and red trousers. For a second Jehan notices a checkered bowtie on the neck of the man. They ask the same woman behind the Information desk and she answers them. Both of the men hurry away and Jehan feels angry inside. He catches the air greedily in order to freeze his tears. Éponine’s cold fingers curl on Jehan’s thin wrist.

They wait and wait. Éponine angrily asked the woman several times, but the answer was the same. “He is in the operation room, the doctors do everything they can.”

The girl called her brother and told him not to wait, because she is going to spend the night in the hospital. _No, Gavroche, you are not coming here, because outside is freaking cold. No, we don’t have any news…Fuck, I don’t know…Yes, he will be fine…I’ll call you back…_

Her eyes look like the eyes of a caged animal. Without hope, savage and painfully clear. She sits on the chair, hugging her knees, slightly rocking from side to side.

Jehan is writing something down on the piece of paper he has found on the table near them. It was an advertisement of a new medical journal. He is writing down words, pouring his fear and desperateness. 

_When you are waiting, it means you have someone to wait for._  
 _When you are sad, it means you have someone to remember._  
 _When you are high, the stars are around and the sky is so far._  
 _Don’t you believe me? Look, the truth is all around you._

Minutes pass, hours run. Once Jehan noticed the young man with a bowtie again. He ran down the stairs to the coffee machine, bought two coffees and walked away. His face was tired and exhausted.

Éponine has fallen asleep, her head resting on Jehan’s knees. Jehan’s eyes are blurred and his muscles are acing, because of the lack of movements in the recent two hours. 

And then the information-desk woman comes to them and gently smiles. She says something and Jehan can’t really understand her. Éponine opens her eyes and jerkily stands up, blinking a lot, her black locks on her eyes and cheeks. 

“Your friend is in the intensive therapy room on the third floor. The fifth ward to your left. You can see him and talk to his doctor.” Jehan and Éponine are listening her breathless. Then they just freeze for a moment.

And after those words have been sunken into their minds, all the events have become fast, complicated, hard to bear and desperate.

One moment they run to the elevator. Wait for it. The journey to the fifth floor seems endless. They run again and collide with a nurse. Only after all of that they find a doctor. They listen, they breathe, they ask and then cry. 

_It was the first operation, because the car accident was really bad. Grantaire had a massive backbone damage. I fear there is a possibility for him…Please calm down, we will do everything we can and I am sure he will be able to walk again… But for now, he needs rest…_

The girl with black hair slowly leans on the wall and slides down on the floor. Éponine is afraid. Her hands are shaking and in front of her eyes she can see her Artist laughing and smoking. His bitter lips and eyes, which have a color of cold sea.

At the end of the corridor a young man, probably a student with light brown hair and glasses on his nose is watching them. His heart is beating loudly. He is afraid too. He is waiting too. He is also praying.

 

~~~  
A little boy with a broken hand walks around the corridor on the fifth floor of the hospital. His hand is in the special bandage and is aching just a bit. The boy has five or maybe six years old. His wide brown eyes are absorbing the world around him. He discovers the waiting room with big sofas and another Christmas tree in the corner. He slowly walks to it and looks at the colorful present boxes under the tree. Carefully, trying not to disturb his broken arm, he sits on the floor and touches the box. Then grabs it with his left hand and examines. The box seems to be empty. He shakes it a bit and sighs. Then stands up and makes several steps to look outside the window. Breathing rather loudly he stands on his tiptoes and glances outside. The winter Paris amazes him. Maybe not Paris, but its grey color. So sad and lonely city, even when there live so many people.

The boy sighs once again and turns around to walk away. His mother is a divorced business woman, so she visits him only in the evening. That’s why he has nothing better to do then just wondering around the hospital until a nurse or a doctor catch him and send back to his ward. 

The boy walks, quietly singing a melody, when he suddenly realizes he has noticed something blue. He stops and thinks. Then carefully turns his head and blinks several times. Second later he sees blue pair of eyes. 

The boy happens to stop in front of the ward, where the door hasn’t been closed properly. There on the bed is lying a young man with dark curly hair and very blue eyes. The boy smiles and waves his hand. The eyes smile back. Then he hears a whisper.

_“Aux armes citoyens_  
 _Formez vos bataillons”_

The smile on the boy’s lips becomes wider as he recognizes the melody. It has been the same song he has been singing. Uncertainly, he steps forward and opens the door a bit more. The man on the bed looks very tired. 

“Do you know what you have been singing, kid?” the man whispers, like if he talks louder, it will give him a lot of pain. 

The boy shrugs. “My mother sings this song sometimes.”

The dark haired man smirks. “It’s the very French song. Probably the most important song for French men.”

The little boy tilts his head. “Why? And what’s your name?”

The man on the bed pulls his hair away from his face. “Call me R.”

“R?” the boy enters the ward, looking around with interest. On the table near the bed is standing a vase with flowers. “And I am Jean.”

A shadow of a smile appears on the lips of R. “I have a very good friend, his name is Jehan. These are his flowers.” He nods on the vase. “You are lucky to have such a name, kid.”

Jean carefully comes closer and looks at R. He watches his pale lips and blue eyes. “Your eyes are the bluest blue ever.”

“It’s because they are made of ice.” answers R, trying not to blink to let the kid examine them.

“No, the ice is cold and you are not cold.”

“Why do you think so? My hands are always cold.”

The boy slowly and clumsy climbs on the bed and sits near R. The older man only chuckles. “It is good. Because your heart is warm then. It is worse when you have cold hands…no, warm hands.” He thoughtfully shakes his head, the fair hair tickles his cheeks. “Warm hands and cold heart…” Jean smiles to R and the second one notices that the kid doesn’t have two front teeth.

“I’ve never thought about that.” Honestly answers R. 

The boy leans closer and touches R’s curls. For a second he has been holding them and then both R and Jean laughs. “Soooft.” He says, smiling. 

Grantaire feels himself strange. Éponine has a senior brother, but he is older than this kid and is absolutely different. Gavroche is too smart for his age and too sarcastic already. Maybe because he spends too much time with Grantaire. Or, which is more likely, because his life is too cruel. Parents who are already in jail, the usual lack of money and many others thing, which steal his childhood. And this Jean is a normal kid. Still naïve and childish.

“Why did you say I am lucky to have such a name, R?” 

Grantaire grimaces as he’s tried to shift himself into another position. He takes a deep breath and answers. “Because I know a story about a very brave man, who had the same name.” He coughs several times.

The boy’s eyes widen. “A story? Like in books? Can you tell it?”

His voice sounds excited, but right now Grantaire has regretted saying that. His back has started acing badly. He chews the inner side of his cheek, trying to calm down. 

“Are you hurt? You need to breathe, R! Come on, it’s easy.” Jean starts breathing intensively, encouraging the other man. He squeezes the older man’s hand. 

Grantaire gasps as the pain suddenly disappears. He rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes. 

“R?”

“Shhh…Close your eyes.”

Jean does that. 

“What do you see?”

The boy thinks for a second. “Nothing. Darkness?”

“Now rub your eyes.” Grantaire rubs his own tired eyes, realizing how heavy his arms are. “And what do you see now?”

“Stars…” 

“That’s right. Stars. Once upon a time, there was a Poet. His name was Jehan.”

“Is it your friend? Whose flowers are in that vase?”

“Yes. You would like him. Jehan is very kind and he can build castles made of words. He makes the words sing. Beautiful and powerful words, made of single letters. One day Jehan has heard about a great evil.”

“About a dragon?”

“Yes, we can call it a dragon. Jehan was walking down the street in his big t-shirt with flowers printed on it and wind was playing with his ginger hair. Suddenly he heard a man, who was talking to people. He explained that all of them lived in a great fear of the dragon. That dragon had a name. It was called “The Authority”. The whole Paris had been tangled in its spells. Jehan, whose soul was…”

“What is soul?”

“Soul…It’s what is living with your heart. It will replace us when we all sleep forever.”

“Sleep forever. You mean die?”

“Well, yeah. But still, sometimes, sleeping is better than living. So, kid, where was I…Jehan’s soul was very young, but he knew much more and he understood so many things. When he saw the man speaking he felt bad for his beloved Paris. The man – Apollo, a white knight, was telling people that the time had come. The dragon must be slaved. Jehan saw fear in people’s eyes and decided to come back next day with his poems.”

“How can poems help to slave the dragon?”

“You are right, words can’t kill. Well, they can’t kill that dragon. But they can encourage people, make them feel better, stronger. Poets are always the important part of the Revolution. Do you know what the Revolution means?”

“A fight in order to kill the Dragon?”

“Yes. But Apollo knew that when you killed the dragon’s head, the two new heads would grow.”

Jean opens his eyes and looks at his new friend. “How does Apollo look like?”

Grantaire carefully turns his head to his left. “I saw him once. He was in the middle of a crowd, telling people about his plan. He was beautiful, with gracious figure, amber eyes and golden hair. The Sun liked his hair. It danced on his locks, making them glow. Apollo’s color was red. He was wearing the red coat when I saw him. Strong people like that color, because it symbolizes freedom. Together with white and blue. Apollo’s eyes were wise. He was a good dragon slayer. Fearless and merciless.”

“And he had a sword and a horse?”

“A horse? No, the dragon killed his horse, but he indeed had a sword. A silver one. Imagine how his powerful gaze and the sound of people, singing on the square, reflected on that sword. It absorbed the courage and the energy of Apollo’s knights and became a stronger weapon.”

Jean is sitting on the bed near Grantaire, listening very attentively and watching something. Maybe he is imagining the story. When Grantaire stops talking, the boy sits still for a moment and then jerkily turns his head. “Continue!”

“Sorry, kid, I am very tired. I need to sleep.”

The boy’s index finger pokes Grantaire’s unshaved cheek. He asks with a worried face. “Will you be alright? Promise me not to sleep forever.”

Grantaire smiles. Jehan hates that smile. It never reaches his eyes. It is only a play of muscles. A mechanical movement. Grantaire rarely smiles. He mocks and twists the nature of the smile. 

“I will try. Come tomorrow, Jean. I will tell you the rest of the story.”

The little boy smiles with his toothless smile and jumps on the floor. He opens the door and turns to wave his hand. Jean doesn’t understand why his new friend is so pale, but he smiles to the man anyway. “Bye! ”

 

When the door is closed, Grantaire groans, biting his lower lip. His hands are shaking and he is dreaming about morphine. Lots of morphine. To sleep instead of feeling this agony. He suddenly tastes blood in his mouth. That makes him stop biting his lips. 

Every breath is like climbing up and then falling down. Painful, hard, unnecessary. 

The door of the ward is opened again. “Grantaire?”

The dark haired student doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognize the voice. “Hello, Ponine.”

The girl quickly crosses the room and sits on the same spot where the kid has been sitting earlier. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Grantaire opens his eyes and tries to smile. 

“Don’t even try to do that, because it looks like you want to puke, but to do that very politely.” Éponine tiredly runs her hand through her hair. 

“I want to smoke.” Sighs Grantaire sadly. 

“It’s all your fault that you have ended up hear. I told you not to come on that fucking protest.” Her brown eyes spark dangerously. “You didn’t even know what those people were protesting for.”

“Enough.” 

The girl shakes her head. The baggy jumper on her thin shoulders looks cozy. “You always do what you think is right. But your understanding of the word “right” is twisted. Like we don’t have our own problems…”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “It was an accident, I just happened to be near their protest.”

“I know, my own life is a complete mess, but I carry on. Gavroche carries on. Jehan struggles through. And you have decided that it is easier to give up. We need you. And you play a coward.” Eponine sounds broken and her voice is hoarse. “I heard the leader of that activist group was injured. Maybe it was the police.” She reaches for a bag, which she puts on the chair. “I brought you oranges.”

Grantaire smiles sadly. “I want to drink.”

His friend squeezes the package with fruit. “You need to eat this. Jehan made you some soup. We are all misfits. Broken romantics and poor realists, clinging to the hope, when there is no left for us. We live in one of the most fucking amazing cities of the world. Yet we are lost and lonely inside the beating heart of the country. Why? Because it’s Christmas. It is the time, when everyone must feel happiness and warmth in hearts. And who are we without each others?” She pauses, looking inside the blue pieces of ice. “We need you. You are my and Jehan’s best friend, you an older brother for Gavroche. Don’t you fucking think about suicide again.”

Grantaire silently tugs Éponine closer and hugs. 

“We are waiting for you on Christmas, R.”

 

~~~  
When little Jean enters his ward, he looks at his neighbor. The young man is sitting on his bed, reading a book. Jean tries to read the name of it. Something like “T-h-e S-o-c-i-a-l C-o-n-d-u-c-t” or “C-o-n-t-r-a-c-t”… 

“Oh, hello, Jean. ” the man says. “Where have you been? You’ve missed the lunch.” He nods on a plate with probably cold soup.

And when Jean looks at his neighbor again his and eyes open widely once again. “Apollo! You are Apollo, the white knight form the story!!”


	2. There is no happy endings with me, kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone) Sorry for this chapter being not that much Xmas spirited, but I will try something merry before New Year, I hope.
> 
> P.S. sorry, I haven't checked this yet, so there must be plenty of mistakes((

The darkest hours are before the morning. That knows everyone, but how can we overcome those hours? What can help to survive the tsunami of thoughts? What can shelter a mind from the breaking walls of hopes? Why is it so easy to feel every part of your living heart and fallen soul?

Grantaire is lying on the hospital in the dark ward. His eyes are opened, but he doesn’t notice the world around him. His back is aching and he is unconsciously biting his lips. His head right now is like a magic box: full of tangled thoughts and labyrinths of decisions. 

He was walking down the street, not really carrying where he would end up. Grantaire was dreaming without sleeping during the day and sleeping without dreams at nights. The sight of the white knight among ordinary mortals. 

Jehan told Grantaire who he was. A fallen angel of Revolution. It was enough for Apollo to hear his bitter contra arguments only once. And it was enough for him to despise Grantaire. That was not important after all. Grantaire closes his eyes. Apollo cares about the whole society, which means he doesn’t care about individuals. 

Grantaire gasps. He doesn’t want to think about that day. About the figure with golden locks and the Sun, dancing above his halo. Grantaire closes eyes with his palms, rocking his head from side to side. The voice, capable of terribly powerful things. And eyes, encouraging with their graceful fierce. Amber and supposedly warm eyes can freeze the human heart. 

Grantaire opens his eyes rapidly. 

_“You didn’t even know what those people were protesting for.”_

_No, Ponine, I know what they were doing. And there, in the middle of their doomed protest I realized something for myself. And the results are fucking pitiful…And all the times I attended their meetings anonymously, sorry I didn’t tell you, but I couldn’t resist. It was interesting to see their fighting and hopes._

There are people who are waiting for him on Christmas, who are caring. Grantaire swallows the air. The oblivion may be mine, but the grief will be theirs. His eyes wonder around the room and eventually stop stop at the drip bulb with morphine. If he only could reach it and make a bigger dose. To die, to sleep and by a sleep to say we end. He winces as he realized he was quoting Shakespeare. 

In Grantaire’s head appears the quiet voice of Eponine. It appears quite often, especially when his body starts aching badly. The dull pain accompanies by the girl’s voice. 

_It was not your fight. We do not belong to those people. We cannot change the world and fools they are, if they think otherwise._

He must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes it is afternoon already and the room is full of someone’s pleasant voice. It is reading the book. Grantaire opens his eyes and watches his dear friend. Red jumper and brown jacket, skinny jeans and pale face. Ginger ponytail and lovely freckles.

“Are you, by any chance, reading me “Fantastic Mr. Fox”, Jehan?”

The student looks up from the book and smiles tiredly. “Yes, I am.” They remain silent for a moment. “You are looking better.” He chuckles, watching the reaction of his friend. “Just a bit. A bit less shitty as you normally do.” 

Grantaire smiles, but then winces as he tries to shift himself into another position. He doesn’t feel guilty himself for thinking about suicide. 

 

Jehan watches Grantaire’s movements and his eyes. He notices the caged gaze and a beating soul behind his pupils. Jehan understands his friend’s thoughts and he accepts them. “You know, I can’t blame you. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was the police’s fault. But you warned those people. Most of them ran away from the protest and Javert didn’t catch them.” Jehan’s cold fingers touch Grantaire’s palm and quiet voice calms. “We all think of giving up sometimes. It’s all about the strength which is left for us.”

On the other hand, Grantaire sees Jehan looks like a caged bird. Strong, but chained with every day censorship. His desire to life is hidden by the tiredness in his green eyes. He sometimes smells of cigarettes, but 

“My life is not that bad. It’s really cowardly, actually. Try to give up. To drink the shit out of yourself. But I am not excusing myself.” Grantaire’s eyes have become even more blue and paler. 

Jehan is sitting silently. His breathing is steadily and his lips are sad. “You are a very talented artist. You don’t value that. But you don’t have a right to judge them. They have been fighting for a noble idea.”

“Death can’t be noble. The process of loosing is always ugly. It destroys.” Grantaire rolls his eyes as Jehan opens his mind to protest. “There are no phoenixes in the real life. If we lose, we give up. That’s what people do. That group of student was fighting for a utopia, for a ghost of a better life.”

“You’ve heard the speech of their leader. It has been encouraging people. Because sometimes we need a leader, a light conductor.” Jehan pulls away hair from his face. “I admire them and I’ve written poems for them. To encourage and to make their bitter reality a bit lighter to bear.”

They sit in silence, enjoying their company. Sometimes Éponine, Jehan and Grantaire just sit in the middle of the night on their old sofa, smoking. They just sit and enjoy the warmth of their bodies and the smell of the cigarettes. Three of them against the whole world. Three, if you don’t count Gavroche.

Grantaire suddenly notices how exhausted the face of his friend is. 

“You look like shit, Jehan. Like a little, poetical, flying in the stars shit.” Grantaire mutters. 

Jehan chuckles quietly. “I love you, R. I love your way of seeing the world. I love you, because you are gritty, little, dirty freak.” 

Grantaire smiles. “So raise your glass…”

He suddenly stops and turns his head. Jehan slowly does the same. Both of the men stare at the door, which is opening slowly and a bit uncertainly.

A head of a boy appears in the doorway. “Sorry…” he whispers and quickly closes the door.

“Nono, wait, Jean, come here!” 

Jehan smiles as he watches his friend. Gavroche likes Grantaire very much, but it’s Gav and R, birds of a feather in some ways. But in this situation there is something completely different.

The boy enters the room and glances at them shyly. “Hello.”

The Poet smiles and waves his hand. “Hello, how are you?”

“You are the Poet from the story? The one who brought R flowers?” in the boys eyes Grantaire can see the admiration.

“Yes, it was me. My name is Jehan.”

The boy nods quickly. “But why did you buy R flowers?”

Jehan tilts his head. “Because you can show the color of your heart with the help of flowers. They are all different, just like our hearts. And flowers can cure the greatest illness of all.” The Poet smiles to Jean. “Sadness.” 

Jean stares at Jehan then at Grantaire. The last one giggles. “Yeah, he is always like that, live with that, kid.”

Jehan feels the pleasant warmth in the chest, when he sees the smile on Grantaire’s face. “Sorry, but I have not a very serious business to do, but it can’t wait, unfortunately.” He stands up from the bed and comes closer to the boy. “Jean, look after Grantaire and tomorrow you will report me, okay?” the boy stares at the beautiful green eyes of the Poet. Then he nods. Jehan smiles and pats his shoulder. “Take care.” He turns to Grantaire. “Both of you. Éponine and I will come to you tomorrow.”

Grantaire sighs and shrugs with a tiny smile on his lips as he watches Jehan, living. A skinny figure of a Poet. His lovely Poet.

Jean turns to Grantaire and hesitates. “Will you tell me a story?”

“What story?”

“About Apollo and Jehan and the Dragon.” Jean sits on the edge of the bed.

Grantaire sighs. “Do you think it is going to be an interesting story?”

The kid nods intensively. “And, by the way. I’ve realized one thing.” Jean smiles. “Jehan’s poems really could help people in their fighting.”

The Artist smiles a bit. “You think so?”

“Yes, because his words are beautiful and we trust beautiful things.” The kid chews his lower lip. “Tell a story, please.”

The Artist takes a deep breath, but little Jean interrupts him suddenly. “You draw beautifully.” 

Grantaire’s eyes widen. Outside the snow starts falling on Earth, hiding all the people’s problems under its whiteness. “What do you mean?”

The boy sits on his right leg and answers, playing with the edge of Grantaire’s blanket. “I mean that you draw very cool. Enjolras looks so realistic.”

Grantaire’s palms are shivering. “You know Enjolras?”

Jean glances at his friend with a shade of doubt on his little face. “Yes. He is my ward neighbor.” Grantaire silently watches the kid. “I’ve showed him your pictures, because they are beautiful. Are you alright, R? Is it breathing again?” The kid reaches for Grantaire’s hand and pokes it. “breathe, R, breathe with me…”

“Where did you get my drawings? Tell me now.” his voice is calm and very quiet. Almost a whisper.

“Yesterday, when I came back to my ward I realized that Enjolras, my neighbor, was Apollo from your story.” Jean unconsciously shifts away from Grantaire’s painfully blue eyes. “I told him our story and I wanted to show him what an amazing person you were…I wanted to bring him here, to you, but you were asleep…” Grantaire’s face expression is blank. “Your drawings were lying on that table, so I took them…I know it is bad to take things without permission, but Enjolras brought them back…”

Grantaire waves his hand and then desperately hides his face in hands. Jean sits still, realizing how sad R is. “R? I am sorry…I didn’t mean to upset you…” 

Grantaire leans backwards and closes his eyes. Jean is watching him, breathing loudly. “Kid?”

“Yes?”

“Do you see that thing?”

“Where?”

“Up there, near those monitors…That drop bulb..Yeah-yeah, be careful. Ouch, that was my leg…What is the number there? On the limiter? Good. Make it 12. It must be the last number.”

“R, what is that?”

“Oh, it will help me sleep. Because I am having nightmares. Have you finished?”

“I think so.”

“Climb down.”

“Will it help you?”

Grantaire reminds silent for some time and Jean can see a strange satisfaction on the pale face of the Artist.

 

The Artist suddenly opens his eyes and look straight into kid’s face. “You still want to hear the story, don’t you? About noble Apollo and silly R?” his voice sounds hoarse and obsessed. “I will tell, sit comfortable and listen.”

Jean has been holding Grantaire’s blanket tightly, like if it could save him from the cold wave, which appeared in those eyes. The kid can’t understand the sudden change in the man in front of him. But he nods anyway.

Grantaire grimaces as he tries to sit more comfortably. “Once there was a really nasty cold December evening. When there is no snow and the weather laugh at your hopes of White Christmas and happiness for your life. The wind was merciless and the air was cruel. Just because they could be so. Just because in that doomed place even they were the servants of the Dragon. The group of knights together with their leader, were sitting around the fire on the small street. It was not even a street, more like a dead end. They were hided, so they had an illusion of safeness. The knights were poor, their cloths couldn’t keep their bodies warm, their fingers in gloves were freezing. The fire was dancing in front of them as they sit around it, trying to catch its ghost warmth. The leader was thinking about the plan. Actually, he already had it in his head, he was just waiting for the special occasion to tell the others about them. One of his knights was a Philosopher in glasses with soft voice. He was like a brother to Apollo. So Apollo knew that he would support his plan, no matter how absurd it was. Another knight was an young man, full of enthusiast. Apollo was planning to use him as a moving force against the Dragon. There also was a Romantic, who was full enough to fight and dream about the victory. The Working Ginger man, who was ready to do anything, just to receive some money for bread. Another one, who brought bad luck, whenever he went….It was a band of misfits, the society’s freaks, doomed heroes.”

Jean shakes his head from time to time, but says nothing, because he is afraid that Grantaire won’t continue. 

“Apollo knew that if you cut the Dragon’s head, there would grow another two. So he came up with a brilliant plan.” Grantaire is looking somewhere, his gaze lost in the corners of the dark ward. “He knew they had no other choice, so he decided they need to protest against the Dragon, to make him anger and eat them and then free the whole city.” Grantaire’s voice is bitter. He laughs humorless. “Apollo was sure, he wanted to believe in his own theory, that the Dragon would let alone their city if they made a sacrifice.” He becomes silent for a second. “How wrong he was. The city watched the bravery of the knights, their bloody fights and their injures and suffers. The blood on the golden locks of Apollo looked powerful. He was a sign of their fallen Revolution. There was a knight, who was laughing at the face of danger, he was dancing in front of the Dragon, discrediting him and his power. He had a long sword and a shining armor, which was already red, because of his blood. But he was laughing, he was stupidly brave.”

The kid covers his mouth by hands as he listens, whispering “nono…”

“When the Dragons servants began the attack, they used bows and arrows. One of the black arrows pierced the armor of the Enthusiastic Knight. He tried to save Apollo, protecting his marble body with his own mortal. His heart stopped and the stupidly brave smile was left, painted with blood on his lips.”

“No, they didn’t lose, they couldn’t…”

“Of course they could. Our History has known many knights and fools, who tried to slave the Dragon. All of them lose. That’s the nature of the world.”

“Why are you killing them…Stop, make them win!” Jean is playing with his hair and biting his lips. “You promised to tell me a good story!”

Grantaire runs his hand through his wild curls and he smile. His smile is scarily powerful. “Oh, but I am telling you a nice story. A truthful one.”

Jean grabs cold hands of Grantaire and rock them. “And Apollo? Enjolras? He is alive, he is okay, he is here, R!”

Grantaire shakes his head, the bitter tears, forming in his eyes. “Apollo is alive, just because his friends died for him. His power is in his words, he encourage people and they are ready to die for him, but he himself is afraid of death…There is no happy ending with me, Jean, if you don’t like a story ask Enjolras to tell you a better one, a fairy tale.” Grantaire gets free form the kids hands and wipes away his tears.

“What did Apollo say to you that you are crying now?” Jeans asks very quiet.

Grantaire freezes for a long minute or an hour, he doesn’t care. Jean waits and waits. He doesn’t care how much time has passed, he knows it was important for R. 

“The almighty Apollo was blinded with his desire to win, that he was ready to lose their lives. His life. And when R tried to tell them that the Dragon was unbeatable, he laughed and said R was a cynic and was not capable of anything.” Grantaire’s voice is shaking a bit. “Of faith, of love, of being free…” He gasps and smiles. “If the Dragon didn’t kill them already, it would certainly destroy them in the future.”

“No, they can fight and they will. We all need to live happily.” Jean thinks of hugging Grantaire, but his broken arm makes it difficult for him. 

“The thing is that Apollo was wrong. I was ready to die for them…For him. It’s not my fault that the Police was too careful and I am still alive. I can die for him, but not for their ideas.” His voice sounds in the silence of the dark room. Too empty and too cold. “The Dragon will destroy my heart and that will change nothing.”

The Artist closes his eyes, feeling the blissful emptiness in his head. Morphine is running down his veins, turning his blood into a lazy liquid. Suddenly his bed is unbelievably warm. At last…

“R? Are you sleeping, R?” Jean leans closer and looks at Grantaire’s face. “Are your nightmares gone?”

_To end; to sleep, to die…_

 

“Jean! Jean, have you touched anything here!”

_What a painfully beautiful voice._

“Tell me quickly!”

“Y-yes, R has asked me to turn that limiter to the last number…”

“Jesus, call the doctor, Jean, now! He is going to die, because of morphine overdose…Shit, Grantaire, what the hell you are doing!?”

_Oooh, interesting, Apollo-all mighty…Is that you?_

“Wake up..I’ve been listening your story…You are a mad person. Wake, the fuck up, I need to make a proper discussion with you! I know you are clever, you just hide behind the bottle of wine on our meetings…Wake up!!! And those drawings…They are powerful and you are an incredible artist. Why are you wasting all of that?”

 

 _I must … be in Heaven._

“No, you are still, here on Earth. Talk to me, don’t fall asleep.”

_There is no happy endings with me, Enjolras._

~~~ 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Éponine is standing outside the ward with another plastic cup of coffee in her hand, staring at the student with glasses. “Grantaire didn’t attend any political groups! He doesn’t believe in that shit!”

The student, Combeferre, nods on the chairs near the door, where Jehan is already sitting near another student with a bowtie. “Indeed, he doesn’t believe in what we are doing, but he has his reasons.”

Éponine rolls her eyes and stares at Enjolras. “You mean this Enjolrastard? Because of him the Police attacked him on that bloody protest.” Her hands are shaking and she has tried to wipe away tears from her face, but has only spilled coffee on her jumper. “Of, for fuck’s sake…”

Combeferre picks up a handkerchief and gives it to the girl, carefully taking the cup from her hands. Éponine chuckles, realizing what a mess she is. Mascara and tears, dark skin under her eyes and a bit oily hair. “What a gentleman you are, Mr. Combeferre.” She says and puts her head on his shoulder. She knows that Marius Pontmercy is also a member of that activist group. She just doesn’t care right now, feeling Combeferre’s shoulder under her cheek.

Surprisingly, that made Combeferre’s cheeks pink.

Enjolras has been standing near the ward door, leaning on the wall with wide opened eyes. He is thinking. Thinking about what Grantaire has done. And what are the results.

He never believed in freedom and justice, yet he believed in me. He never fought with us on that protest, yet he saved us. He warned and we managed to escape the police. But the Police caught him and beat him and their car almost killed him. Maybe that was an accident and the police car never intended to hit him. But what if he deliberately jumped under it? To prove what? That by sacrifice the Dragon can be slaved? 

Jehan is writing something down in a notebook, while Courfeyrac, the man in a bowtie, sits near. “Your writings are like smoking for others in the critical situation.” He states quietly.

Jehan nods, trying to calm down his trembling fingers. 

“Your soul must be amazing…You are beautiful.” Courfeyrac suddenly says.

Jehan’s hands suddenly stop shaking and he slowly turns his head. Ginger, knotted hear and big, green, wet eyes. They look at each other and smile just a bit. To save that for later.

Jean stands up from his seat near Gavroche, who has fallen asleep on that uncomfortable plastic chair, and walks to Enjolras. “He will be fine, Apollo, believe me.”

Enjolras tries to smile, but his lips are trembling. He is lost and tries to find his way.

 

And none of them can’t say for sure, when the doctor came out of Grantaire’s ward. “He is a lucky person. He will be fine.”

 

And Enjolras can feel that a heavy stone disappears from his chest. And Éponine is laughing and cursing, promising to kill Grantaire herself. And then she hugs Ferre and then Jehan. And Gavroche has punched Enjolras “just in case you are planning to hurt Grantaire again”. 

And all of them freeze, when Combeferre suddenly announces that it is actually 24th of December today. 

They just need Grantaire to wake up and then they are going to have a party. Courfeyrac has decided to run outside to the nearest shop and buy some champagne and cupcakes, _yes, I am aware that it is Christmas Eve and we are in the hospital, but hey, we have a reunion party or something like that!! ___

__

__The Dragon can’t be slaved, but we are going to fight together, Grantaire._ _


End file.
